Color My Eyes Red
by define-serenity
Summary: [NIGHTFLASH] "Kil.. l... er," Sebastian's voice croaks over the comlink, followed by a short burst of static, a rustle, a hard thump.
Inspired by a Spideypool fanart. Title taken from _Hush_ by Automatic Loveletter. Set during _One More Drop Into the Blue._

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 **Color My Eyes Red;;**

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Stars constellate the night sky, cloudless over a well-lit Central City. Sirens sound in the distance, but there's little more than white noise on the police scanner, save a few drunk and disorderlies—nothing he can help out with. It's been a quiet night, all things considered, even though his knees would disagree; the concurrent ache has gotten worse these past few weeks, and chasing down an armed robber hadn't helped. He should take it slow, rest for a few days, but with a boyfriend who can speed through every street in the city and be in and out every single building in a matter of minutes, he feels obliged to do his part. Fastest man alive or not, Sebastian needs to stop to rest too from time to time. Only fair he help out.

"Kil.. l... er," said boyfriend croaks over the comlink, followed by a short burst of static, a rustle, a hard thump.

"Flash?" he calls, pushing his earpiece deeper. "Flash? Do you need a hand?"

No alerts have come in over the scanner, and Dottie nor Sam called in—the police never catches everything, and neither do they, so maybe Sebastian stumbled into a situation too much for him to handle. If the assailants have guns Sebastian's been known to ask for his help rather than rely on his speed.

Sebastian coughs. "In a way, I guess."

Something's off. He can hear Sebastian's voice, but no signs of life in the background or any indication that Sebastian's caught in something he can't handle on his own. It's quiet, and not in a peaceful kind of way. Sebastian's in trouble, there's an odd twist in his gut like premonition, and he doesn't waste a second thought before he releases his wings and leaps off the edge of his perch. The tracker in his visor tells him Sebastian's stationary somewhere in a back alley behind a laundromat, which should be troublesome enough—Sebastian rarely stands still even in his regular clothes, and to remain in some shady dark hole without backup; it's all so unlike him.

The overhead lights are busted so he removes his visors as his feet touch ground, his sensitive eyes unimpeded by the dark—on the contrary, his pupils enlarge and track along the alley, follow the rats digging through the trash, a busted drainpipe dripping wastewater to his right.

And in the dead center of the alley, in a pool of his own blood, his boyfriend.

"Sebastian," –air escapes his lungs, he rushes to Sebastian's side, his knees protesting as he crouches by his head but no thought in his mind that means to ease his pain. It's daunting. It's terrifying. How moonlight can blacken blood.

"Whatever happened to–" Sebastian gurgles, a line of red escaping his mouth, indistinguishable down the side of his mask, "no names– when we're in disguise."

"What happened?" he asks, his hands cupping the back of Sebastian's head while his eyes frantically track the source of the bleeding.

Left shoulder.

Bullet hole.

Through-and-through.

"Oh, you know," Sebastian chokes out, breathing a spray of red. "Bullet hit left lung. Lung collapsed."

Sebastian's callousness –that goddamn mouth of his– wraps around fears he'd pushed at with all his might, nightmare images of Sebastian bleeding out on Dottie's backseat, working so hard to protect him that he loses track of his own limits—how did this happen? Why didn't Sebastian call him in before it got to this? Why's his superhero boyfriend bleeding out on the dirty ground?

He grits his teeth together. "That's not what I meant, you idiot."

"Wasn't– fast enough."

Speed had nothing to do with it. Sebastian only ever catches bullets when he's not in control, and– God, he should be. He should be fast enough to case his surroundings before ever coming to a standstill, observe every aspect of a crime scene before even entertaining the thought of opening that smart mouth. He does that every day in his day job, collecting trace evidence microscopically small. Why the hell can't he do that as The Flash? Why must he insist on endangering his life, being careless, reckless, without thinking of the people he might leave behind?

Sebastian's so busy worrying about the people who might get hurt he forgets what would happen to his heart were something to happen to The Flash.

"Just– sit with me," Sebastian whispers, but he can decipher begging when he hears it. "I'll heal."

So careless. So stupid. And yet he loves this idiot all the same—the world would have to end before he gives up on them, so here he is bleeding all the same, bleeding like his boyfriend, and he never heals quite so fast.

He pulls down his mask, allowing for the tears to flow freely.

"C'mon now." Sebastian reaches up, red leather catching his tears before they drip down, guiltless and free. "You'll– ruin your make-up."

His eyes fall shut under the strain of his sorrow, and he presses Sebastian's hand to his face so tightly it'll leave marks, leather shrieking into the dead of night. "You're such an idiot," he cries, and sacrifices yet another piece of his heart, forever belonging to Sebastian; he takes too many chances, catches too many bullets, spreads himself too thin. This should be easier by now, but he hasn't had the heart to ask for half yet—half of what Sebastian carries. It's a conversation he keeps postponing and for what? What if some day he loses Sebastian?

"At least I'm your idiot."

In all the sentiments lost to past tears Sebastian's words somehow pierce through, as only his are prone to do—he's already healing, already breathing easier. There's still time.

"Hey, Little Bird," Sebastian says softly. "Give us a kiss."

"A kiss?" He sniffles, opening his eyes to Sebastian's sharp features, outlined crystal clear in the dark. He chose the dark as his hunting ground, the shadows a place meant to keep him safe and hidden—sometimes he wishes Sebastian stuck to them too. Sometimes he wishes he could share. "While we're still in disguise?"

But he's no sooner asked or he tugs at The Flash's cowl, exposing his throat, his chin, the rest of his face.

"Hey," Sebastian protests, the vigor in his tone stilling his fears. "My secret identity."

"You wanted a kiss," he says, a little bit more willing to let Sebastian off the hook; he doesn't catch bullets easily, they weigh on him the way missed opportunities do—failure is one of the few things Sebastian can't carry bravely, shouldn't carry on his own. Yet he tries, time and again, to escape sharing, to escape lightening his burden when that could be what saves them.

"A very manly one. Since I'm wounded and all."

"Your pride, more like."

It's a cheap shot, even though he doesn't mean to make light of the situation, but he can't let Sebastian think this will be the end of it—one of these days they'll need to talk, he'll ask for half and he prays Sebastian won't run. He hopes Sebastian sees the merit in sharing a life, not just as boyfriends but as heroes. There are no either/or options in this life. They tried that. They failed at that. And if this secret remains alive between them they'll fail at this too, as boyfriends and as heroes.

He leans in and pushes his lips to Sebastian's throat, pushes a kiss where his heart beats the strongest and he can taste the life returning to Sebastian's limbs. He won't soon forgive him for this, and he won't soon forget, but what's the point of a life together if he can't sit with his boyfriend while he's healing, while the wounded parts of him slowly piece together into a whole again. Given time, given patience, they'll find that equilibrium too.

" _I'm sorry_ ," echoes somewhere where the dark meets lightning.

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 **fin**

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End file.
